He set down his breakfast plate and cup. These were the best mornings, when both his parents were at work. No nagging about his eating habits, and nobody to say anything when he spent an entire hour in the shower, wandered around in his boxer shorts, and played Comedy Central on high volume.

Ralf cut his toast and fried eggs into small pieces and covered his breakfast in a layer of mayonnaise. He ate quickly, washing his food down with Coke. At the same time, he scanned ads on Craigslist. A few people in a neighboring town had put some promising motor scooters up for sale. Nearly new, no exterior damage. The asking prices were correspondingly steep. Two of the scooters were kept outside, to judge from the photos, and one of them even came with a matching rain cover. He pushed his plate aside and called the number on the first ad.

A woman—Jantine or Janine?—picked up.

“Hi, my name’s Mike Jansen. Is the scooter still available?”

It was. He asked a few questions for the sake of form.

The woman enthusiastically supplied him with information. “That’s right, we always keep it outdoors, but there isn’t a spot of rust on it, and the seat is dry too—no rips or tears.”

“When could I come over and take a look?”

“This evening would be best—my daughter will be home then. It’s her scooter.”

“Evenings are awkward for me.” Ralf doodled triangles on his sheet of paper. “I work in a restaurant. Could I drop by during the day? Maybe tomorrow or the day after?”

“Um—could you come right now? I happen to be free today, but I’m back at work tomorrow and the day after. Otherwise, I could do the weekend?”

Ralf pulled one of his mother’s forms toward him and wrote on the back: Thu + Fri daytime. “Hmm, that’d be tricky. What about tomorrow evening?”

“No, there won’t be anybody here then.”

He scribbled down another note and said, “You know what? I’ll come tonight after all.”

Ten minutes later, he had made four phone calls and written down two addresses. The first option looked like the better one. He would go and take a look tomorrow night.

3

3

Helen walked into the hospital via the staff entrance, but instead of turning right toward the changing rooms and the recovery ward, she continued straight down a wide corridor that led to the central hall. She walked hurriedly. The bag was heavy—much heavier than a handbag ought to be—and every time it brushed against her leg, she felt the chill. Two nurses were standing in conversation by the escalators. They nodded at her, and she endeavored to return their greeting as casually as possible. Nothing to see here, she impressed upon herself. Nobody could possibly know what she was carrying.